Motherhood Uncensored

It's the Great Halloween UTI, Charlie Brown!

I'm actually a bladder infection virgin. 

Or at least, officially anyway. 

There was the time in college where I discovered orgasms and ended up at the health center. But the nurse practitioner only prescribed beets, cranberry juice, and hand jobs. 

And as much as you think that I, the Mominatrix, have sex all the time, let me remind you that I have four children. 

Yes, I know how they got here (original question, thanks for that one, smartasses), but it only takes one time. Or four, in my case.

And my husband travels. And we don't get much sleep. 

Did I mention we have four kids?

But apparently when you raise the amount of intercouse from a couple of times a month IF YOU'RE LUCKY to a few HELL NO SLEEP IS FOR PUSSIES, and forget the ever important post-coital pee because you're old and fall asleep, you end up at the CVS Minute Clinic pissing in a cup without your insurance card.

So I've decided to send the bill to our marriage counselor because when she told us all the things that could happen to us once we started therapy she never told me about UTIs.

{photo via flickr}

Women, stop bullying yourselves.

I've gained about 10lbs since July from a combination of all sorts of things, but mostly because of a life and priority shift from skinny jeans and marathon training, to work, kids, and eating. 

Also beer. or really, BEER!!!

{Due to the amount of which I've consumed, I feel caps and exclamation points are warranted here.}

I fought hard for those skinny jeans for awhile, even over my own psychological well-being and life enjoyment because I'm a 36-year old woman in America and I can somehow only be happy in my size 8 jeans and not the size 10s that are tight.

Looking thin over looking good. (There's a difference)

Which is so logical, right? Because the world knows, you see, and we definitely care about THE WORLD, and your husband, well he knows too even though he doesn't even really notice when you get your hair cut. 

No, I'll pass on your vagina because there's an extra roll on your side. 

SAID NO STRAIGHT MAN EVER.

So I cut out meat (logically) because I wanted to spend the time working and not running SO NO MORE BACON, KRISTEN. 

What I found was my psyche trapped in the most depressing, shameful, and unrelenting inner dialogue, one that I know so many women tell themselves every single day, hour, even second. 

I know this now because I decided to quit letting that anxiety bully me the fuck around. And I packed up with skinny pants and replaced them with bigger sized skinny pants (GENIUS!) and I started to do boot camp and run again BECAUSE I LIKE IT. 

And then when this happens you realize how fucked up it really is. The constant body talk everywhere. 

I got sucked back in last night, explaining the rationale for my new jeans to my husband because they cover the muffin top and he's all like "You have a muffin top?" and then I snapped out of it, though not until after I spent the hour and a half shaming myself. 

I understand that one little story from me isn't going to make you stop hating your body. And I get it. Even at my larger size, I'm thin compared to most women who would like me to shut up already. 

But look, if you take a moment right now and think of all the time and energy you spend in your day thinking about food and your ass and dress sizes and what you could do with all that, well I bet you'd have more time with your kids or more time for work or for doing things you actually enjoy, hey even exercising, not because you hate your waist size but because you like it. 

I take the kids to the playground, I cook more elaborate dinners that I eat. I did cut back on the beer and the booze because it was making me kind of an asshole. But I enjoy a soda every now and then. 

CRAZY TIMES, I know.

I even bought a bunch of cross stitch kits because now that I have an actual work schedule, help, and no lofty race goal to work towards, I have time to do stuff. 

And go figure, I'm happier.

You'd never let anyone talk to your kids like you talk to yourself. You'd probably never allow anyone to talk to you like that. 

So that bully in your head? Tell him to fuck off. 

You're beautiful. 

The end. 

She's electric.

"Did she just say what I think she said?" I asked Drew a few nights ago. 

And indeed she had. 

"MEAN MOMMY!" from my sweet little baby's mouth. 

She kept saying it over and over as I ushered her back in her bed. I did my best to try not to laugh because I know soon enough it won't be as funny. 

I often brush off Bridget's savvy language skills and survivor intuition because she's the fourth kid. She's got to keep up with the other three as they scooter down the hill at stomachache-inducing speeds. 

If no one gets her a snack, she climbs to the top of the pantry and grabs it herself. 

And the things she says, well, let's just say I'd turn my head around if I heard it come out of some other 2-year old's mouth. 

But I'm starting to think that it's just who she is, my little sparkplug.  

And I guess I shouldn't be surprised considering she barreled her way right out of me onto my guest room bed. 

Happy 2nd Birthday, Bridgety! 

(aka Buzzy)

 

More about Baby Four: Bridget's Birth Story, and her First Birthday. 

Happiness is the best revenge

Through no real fault of their own, my parents hurt me immensely.

Of course, I write this knowing that in 20 or so years, my kids might say the same thing about me. 

But as much as I flub this gig up, and trust me, I screw it up big time, I know in my heart that it will be different for my own kids.

I hear parents talk all the time about how worried they are that they're going to screw their kids up like their parents did to them. I'm one of them. 

After therapy last week, my husband said exactly that. 

But I looked him in the eyes and I told him "Your parents never worried about screwing you up, so you're already one up on them." 

The second you break the cycle of whatever sort of dysfunction that has plagued your life, you're changing the path for yourself and your kids. 

It seems small, I know, but it's like a pick axe chipping away at a stone wall. Each hit matters. And once you do it once, you've got the momentum to do it over and over again. 

I looked in the mirror yesterday, feeling terribly disappointed that my mother didn't call or text or send anything for my daughter's birthday, something extremely uncharacteristic of her. Even though we're not really speaking, I just didn't think she would stop speaking to my kids as well. She knows my husband's phone number. She knows where we live. 

There are ways. 

But instead of reaching out to her like I always do, I just left it alone. Maybe she forgot. Maybe she was working. Maybe she sent a card and a gift and it just hasn't arrived yet. 

I've given her a lot of maybes over the years.

But yesterday, I gave her the last maybe:

Maybe this is really who she is. 

She and my father did things to me and my brother that I cannot physically and emotionally imagine doing to my children. And I've thought about them over and over for years now. I've beaten myself up for how I react to things in my life, the survival tactics formed as a child just to make it through a day in my house. 

But all the defense mechanisms and poor coping skills and psychological descriptions for "Hey you had fucked up parents" is letting the dysfunction win.  

Every time I look at myself miserably in mirror or feel guilty about the extra piece of birthday cake, it scores a point. 

When I shame myself, it celebrates.

I do not want my kids crying about me like I do about my mother. 

So I think it's time I seek my revenge.

I apologize to my children when I'm wrong. I do my best to talk through scary things with them, as difficult and painful as it is for both of us. I'm present for them, as best as I can be, and willing to tackle issues and challenges. 

I  want to be the mother to my kids that I never had. I want to be a woman who is a good role model for my girls and my boy. 

Not perfect. Just happy. 

Oh That Margot

It's what everyone says when they spend more than a few minutes with this girl, with her husky little voice, ridiculously mature sense of humor, and mostly easy going personality. 

Just don't piss her off. Or accidentally bump into her. 

In fact, I'm almost certain she's a wise, old soul, back for another round on this Earth. Oh how lucky we are to host her on this journey.

Happy 4th Birthday, Muggle!

{Yeah, I know. I can't believe it either}

Margot's Birth Announcement, The Birth Story, 1st Birthday, 2nd Birthday, and 3rd Birthday